creativity
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There are therapists who charge by the hour. There are forests that charge nothing. And somewhere between them is the curl of fragrant smoke lifting toward the ceiling like prayers without a religion. I don’t chase oblivion. I chase quiet. The kind where anxiety loosens, creativity stretches, and laughter finds its way home. Healing doesn’t…
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They’ll always have an opinion. Too loud.Too quiet.Too broken.Too healed.Too honest.Too much. They’ll call art a wastebecause they cannot seethe pieces of my soulpressed between the lines. They’ll ask why it doesn’t rhyme,as though painhas ever followedsomeone else’s rules. They’ll laugh at the wordsthat kept me breathing,dismiss the pagesthat carried mewhen nothing else could. They’ll…
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The page was empty. Not because I had nothing to say,but because my thoughts kept arriving all at once. Then came a slow inhale. Not magic. Not a miracle. Just enough silence between the noise for one sentence to become another, until the poem had written itself before I realized my heart had been speaking…
Between Bruises and Blooms 